“You called for me, Emperor?”
Da-Wio rose from the magical circle and faced the door where Fei Bin stood, soaked through. Rainwater glistened on his blue and silver battle armor, and his hair was plastered to his face.
He bowed deeply then moved forward into the room. “I came without delay.”
“Yes. You certainly did. If only your efforts in the war delivered such prompt results.”
The young general licked his lips and failed to maintain eye contact. A coward. A true man would meet his ruler’s gaze without flinching in fear. “Your Majesty, we cannot breach the thorn wall. It’s too powerful. For every branch we slash and vine we burn, she raises dozens more. No fire can raze this as long as the griffins are in the sky alongside her.”
“She is their general and leadership. Why have your men not taken her down yet? Without her, they would be left without guidance.”
“She flies on a dragon, Your Majesty. No lance will pierce his hide. No arrow is sharp enough. They have successfully repelled each of our attempts to burn the borders. This is—”
Green energy and magic gathered around the emperor’s fist. Immediately, it solidified into a sharp blade, glinted by the torch light. He stepped forward, a blur of motion, and drove the materializing jade into Fei Bin’s gut. It sliced through his armor effortlessly.
“Why?” came the choked cry as Fei Bin slumped against him.
“I take no pleasure in this, child, but your life is needed to fuel this magic.”
Da-Wio placed Fei Bin in the middle of the circle then completed the magical ritual’s final brush strokes.
Blood seeped from Fei Bin’s mangled abdomen onto the marble floor. It was critical that Fei Bin survive until the end. His lashes fluttered, and his chest moved in labored breaths as Da-Wio recited the incantation learned from a dark king and formidable, unexpected ally.
This ritual must not fail.
Fei Bin’s pitiful moan escaped as a wet gurgle. Then his right arm shifted and flopped against the floor. His hand knocked into one of the tokens and broke the circle, sending it skittering away three inches and smearing the fresh ink.
“No, don’t move!” Da-Wio jumped to his feet to correct the error, but it was too late in the ritual. The gathered energy warped and expanded in a shockwave that knocked the emperor from his feet.
When the room came into focus again, his head spun and flashes of light remained in his vision. He blinked rapidly and finally sat up, desperation tightening his chest when he realized he felt no differently than before.
The statuette was gone, his sacrifice had expired in the dark ceremony, and the power had not been transferred. But where in the nine hells had Cheng gone?
4
No one spoke of the matter that night or the following day. Mulan watched her father unwrap his old armor from the trunk where it had been stored for years. He tended to every piece with care and each time his hands shook or faltered from the nerve damage that afflicted his fingers, she felt her heart break.
War had almost destroyed him once. To go again would mean certain death. Hua Hu had been a great warrior—an esteemed general—but his days of war belonged in the distant past. A foreboding feeling settled heavily in her heart each time she thought of him riding out the next morning.
Mulan waited until her younger siblings had been put to bed before she approached her parents, finding both sitting in the gardens. Whatever they had been saying, they both fell silent at her approach.
“You cannot go,” she said firmly. “Father, you served your time. You gave everything to the emperor’s service. If you leave this time, we’ll never see you again.”
“I must.” Her father’s proud shoulders slumped, as if he carried a heavy weight upon them. “There will be repercussions if our family sends no one.”
“Then send me.”
Both of them stared at her, wearing matching expressions of surprise and disbelief.
“Mulan, you are a great warrior, but you know the law. Women may not serve in the Imperial Army,” her father said in a quiet voice.
Her mother scoffed. “A foolish law, if you ask me. She handles a sword better than most men in the village.”
“This I know, but the law is clear on the matter. They expect a male from the Hua family to report to Shenyang.”
“Then I will disguise myself and go. No one will discover me.”
“You truly believe you can pass as a man?”
“I…I don’t know that I can, but I do know that I can try,” she argued. Compared to her sister, Mulan had inherited more of her father’s masculine facial traits, his stronger jawline, cheekbones, and his thick brows. Those features, in addition to her broad shoulders and straight hips, had led to several villagers mistaking her for a young man the first time she pulled back her hair and donned the leathers she wore on patrol. Without her long hair framing her face, she had appeared quite boyish. Sometimes, she’d wished she could be the son her father deserved.
Perhaps now, she could be.
It could be done.
“I—”
Silencing her husband with a mere touch, her mother laid a hand on his shoulder. They looked at one another, seeming to read one another’s hearts and souls. Mulan had always respected the bond between them and yearned for a similar connection.
Soon enough, her father turned to her, a deep line creasing his brow. “You will need my armor and my sword. You shall be my nephew, raised in my home.”
“I will make you proud, Father.”
“You have always made me proud, Mulan. All we ask is that you use caution. Whatever war the emperor wishes to wage will not be kind. It is different from defending the village against raiders. You will have little privacy. You will always be under scrutiny. If you are discovered, they may execute you…and…”
Her father need not complete his thought. He would be next.
Mulan fought back the urge to tremble. “I understand. I will not fail you, Father.”
Her mother was the first to rise and embrace her. Mulan hugged her tightly and breathed in deeply, committing her almond blossom perfume to memory. Who knew if she would ever smell it again?
“Be safe, my flower,” her mother whispered. “Earn honor not for us, but for yourself. Find your own path, but always remember that we love you.”
“I will.”
In the twilit hours before dawn, Mulan knelt before her parents dressed in her father’s armor with his sword strapped to her side. That he wasn’t a large man was to her advantage. In Hua Hu’s youth, he had been quite slim, and she doubted the equipment would have fit him now at all without alteration by the village smith.
Another good omen that the gods were sending her on her true path—her only path.
Lanwen, you were right. I was meant for more than life in the village. I understand now.
Her father’s ancestral blade was larger and heavier than Mulan’s personal sword but not unfamiliar in her grasp. Many nights, she had taken the gleaming ebony blade down from its mount and performed the katas passed down through her family for generations. Sometimes she suspected her father knew, but he had never chastised her. Now, she was grateful for those nights.
Moments ago, Mulan’s hair had been past her back and resting in a sleek sheet of black against her waist. She couldn’t remember the last time it had only skimmed her shoulders. Wordlessly, her father removed the pin from his own hair.